12 Days of Christmas
by latbfan
Summary: Continuation of my AU Trilogy ("Always You," "Event Horizon" and "Excerpts from Always"), although it can be read alone. 10 years after human Elena and Stefan leave Mystic Falls, Damon and Caroline are spending the holidays together, planning her "death" because she's become too famous. Each chapter will represent a verse from the song.
1. Partridge in a Pear Tree

_A/N: I started writing this before last night's episode (and Caroline being so vehemently anti-Damon), and I'm running with it anyway because it's a spin-off from my AU Trilogy (where Elena doesn't become a vampire and remains with Stefan; Damon keeps his end of their bargain and leaves them alone). While this story goes along with "Always You," "Event Horizon," and "Excerpts from Always," it can be read alone. The story takes place 10 years after everyone flees Mystic Falls. Caroline ended up in Paris. Damon is plotting a dramatic end to Caroline's famous "life" as s fashion designer, and this story is the weeks leading up to the violent and fiery end ('cause what says "Merry Christmas" more than a formal ball with a body count?). Thanks to CreepingMuse, and I hope y'all enjoy._

* * *

**Twelve Days of Christmas**

Partridge in a Pear Tree

"You missed a spot," I say, pointing to a bare section towards the bottom of the tree where Caroline didn't have the branch perfectly twisted with twinkling colored lights.

"I so did not," she argues, continuing her efforts on the ladder.

"There," I say, pointing. "Come over here and look."

Caroline stomps down and huffs over. She stands right in front of me, pushing my feet from the ottoman with her knee as she looks at the tree from my angle. "Dammit. You're right."

"I'm always right." I take another sip from my drink and go back to my book.

"Well, mister smarty pants, you could've said something earlier."

I shrug. "It's a fucking, tree, Caroline. A dead tree that's going to stink up the apartment. Just turn it around."

Caroline swats my arm until I look at her. She purposefully rolls her eyes and flashes back to the tree, where she starts unwinding strands of lights, dropping them without ceremony onto the hard wood floor. "It's standing in front of a mirror for a reason. I want to be able to see the back too. You could help."

"I made you Thanksgiving dinner in a country that doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving. Have you ever eaten a turkey breast so moist and flavorful? I pureed that pumpkin for the pie and whipped the cream by hand."

"Okay, first, you're a vampire. It took less than a minute for the pureeing and whipping. Second, that was like three days ago! How long do you plan on milking it?"

"Longer than three days, that's for damn sure."

"Damon," she starts.

"Caroline," I mock back. She throws her empty coffee mug at me when she thinks I'm not looking, but I catch it right before it hits me in the face.

"You're a jerk."

"Yep," I agree. "Now that we've got that covered, stop harassing me. I'm busy."

"You are _so_ not busy," she says. "You're drinking, in the morning I might add, and reading _Call of the Wild_, which I have personally witnessed you read at least ten times in the last decade."

"It's the only book I travel with, and I'm not bored enough to stoop into your gossip magazine collection. Yet."

"You love my trashy magazines," Caroline teases. "Oh, you claim you're just looking at the fashion ads, but I know you're all about Taylor Swift's latest man. Besides, ever hear of a Kindle?"

"I travel light, and I like books, okay? I like the feel of the pages. Besides, while I don't consider myself particularly sentimental, this is a signed first edition I won in a bet. I met the man, for fuck's sake. We had drinks. Fuck off and decorate your tree."

She smiles. "What was the bet?"

"We both wanted the same girl, and I bet him a signed copy that I'd get her to fuck me instead of him."

"Compulsion?" She knowingly nods.

I roll my eyes. "No, I didn't compel her. I won this book fair and square. For Christ's sake, where's the fun if you're cheating?"

"Like you don't cheat," she says, raising a single eyebrow as she stares at me.

"Fine," I admit. "Sometimes, I cheat. But not for things like that."

"Can I see the personal inscription?"

"No," I snap.

"But why keep reading the same book? You probably have the whole thing memorized by now. At least, God, I hope you do..."

"'He must master or be mastered...'" I interrupt her, reciting from the book that has always spoken to my soul. I fucking love it. I do, in fact, have the whole damn thing memorized.

"See?" she says. "Why read it if you know it by heart?"

"'... while to show mercy was a weakness," I continue, as if she hasn't spoken. "Mercy did not exist in the primordial life. It was misunderstood for fear, and such misunderstandings made for death. Kill or be killed, eat or be eaten, was the law; and this mandate, down out of the depths of Time, he obeyed.'"

There is silence as she stands unnaturally still, holding the stands of lights in her hand, looking at me with a kind of pity and sadness that makes me want to flee her cheerful little apartment and maybe even Paris, to hell with promises and plans and all the things I have to do in the coming weeks.

"What the fuck?"

"Wow," she finally whispers. "Do you really feel that way?"

"I was reciting, Caroline. It used to be part of one's formal education, before Google. Don't read anything into it, pun intended. Although hell, maybe you should read into it. Or just read, period."

She drops the lights and flashes back to me, perching on the ottoman and once again pushing my feet to the floor as she wraps her hand around my knee. "Is that why you hate Christmas? Because you don't think you deserve mercy? Is it an anti-Christian vampire thing?"

"I don't hate Christmas, and I'm Catholic," I say.

She looks shocked. "Really?"

"Yes. And it wasn't easy being Catholic in Virginia in the mid-19th century, let me tell you."

"Actually, that sounds really boring. Please don't tell me," Caroline says. "But you and Stefan are Catholic?"

"Italian. Catholic." I don't complicate the conversation I don't even want to be having by trying to explain why I still consider myself Catholic, even after all these years. There are entire decades when I don't do anything, not even think about it, but then, suddenly, there'll be times when I feel the need for the tradition, for the ritual, and my childhood lessons are impossible to ever completely forget or ignore, the prayers in Latin my mother patiently taught me coming to my lips without any thought or consideration. I was the one who taught them to Stefan, and I wonder if he feels the same way. Add that to our depressingly long list of things we don't ask each other.

"Well, yeah," she agrees. "But... really?"

"Yes, Caroline."

"So why don't you like Christmas? Is it some painful reminder of your childhood or something?"

"What is this, Dr. Phil? Not everything is a result of childhood trauma."

"Well," she says. "The formative years are..." her voice trails off.

"Formative?"

"Jerk," she snaps again, leaving me and returning to her now tangled strings of lights. "You're the one who told me I only had so long in any given field. I've been living it up. Becoming quite famous, actually. Maybe I'll be a scholar or a shrink next time."

"Or the time after that?" I tease, knowing full well Caroline will take her time getting around to higher learning. In her defense, the girl is certainly not all beauty and no brains, and she does have forever stretching out before her. "Maybe one day we can matriculate together. Be roommates. Copy each other's papers and cheat off each other's exams..."

She throws a vase at me, which I easily catch again, setting it neatly next to the empty coffee mug on the side-table. She sticks out her tongue at me before going back to her lights. I sigh and set aside my book, leaving the comfortable chair and my drink, to help untwist strands of lights and hand them to her as she carefully makes sure each branch is equally wrapped, from tip to solid trunk, all the wires intricately woven in and virtually invisible. Like everything else she does, Caroline decorates with an intensity and attention to detail I have to admire, even if it's driving me up the fucking wall to be part of the process.

"Christmas in America was just starting to become a thing when I was alive," I finally say. "Your lack of historical reference is embarrassing. Although as Catholics, we always quietly did Christmas anyway. You know Catholics and their love of pagan rituals."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, not looking at me as she once again climbs her ladder to get to the upper portion of the tree. "Christmas isn't pagan. Keep Christ in Christmas and all?"

"Yes, except the Church put him there in the first place, which is why the Puritans hated the holiday and made it illegal for so long."

"Really?"

I roll my eyes and continue to hand her lights.

"I thought maybe your mom died at Christmas, or your dad never gave you what you most wanted, or..." her voice trails off as she shrugs. "Some weird and traumatic thing with Katherine or the war. Something like that."

"My mother died in childbirth," I finally say in what I hope is an off-hand voice. "It wasn't at Christmas, just not uncommon then."

"How old were you?" she quietly asks.

"Six."

"But..." I don't watch her figure it out. "Oh," she abruptly says when she puts it together. "I see."

There's no way our mother didn't know. Even then, I remembered the babies she lost before Stefan, the tiny holes in the ground for even tinier caskets. I was curled in her arms, asleep, when she started bleeding. One of the slaves lifted me from her bed, and I sat vigil outside the closed door, listening. At first she was quiet, which gave way to the occasional moan. For a while she screamed. At the end, as the sun rose and bathed the hallway in morning light, most frightening of all, she was quiet again.

It took me years to realize why Stefan was Father's obvious favorite when he's the one who killed her. But then I realized I don't need a picture to remember what my mother looked like. All I need is a mirror. It was easier for Father to love Stefan because even as a child, Stefan was Father in miniature. He loved Stefan as easily as he loved himself. Obedient, dutiful Stefan, so fucking easy to love.

"There," she says at last, satisfied and stepping down from the ladder. "Go stand over there and tell me what you think."

"It looks great," I immediately reply.

"No. Stand over there." She pushes me across the room. I stand in the tiny space that is her kitchen and dutifully study her tree.

"Seriously, Caroline. Come here." I motion her with my hand and wait for her to slowly back up, scrutinizing the tree from every angle, before reaching me. I put my arm around her shoulders, and she snuggles into my side, her hair sticky with sap and smelling of pine resin. "It's perfect."

She nods. "It really is, isn't it?" We both look at the tree. "I need it to be perfect," she finally whispers.

I pull her closer and kiss the top of her head. "It is. And it will be." We don't mention why I'm here, why this Christmas is different from all the Christmases that came before and the countless ones that will come after. "Trust me."

She nods. "Lord help me, I never thought I'd say this, but I do. I do trust you."

"Good. Now go take a fucking shower. You stink."

She laughs and swats at me again before heading towards the little bathroom we're forced to share for the next few weeks. I'm such a sucker, no pun intended this time, for letting her talk me into staying with her and not getting my own place.


	2. Two Turtle Doves

Two Turtle Doves

Caroline is crying. If I weren't a vampire and an incredibly light sleeper, I wouldn't be able to hear her. Her "guest room" is more accurately described as an over-flow closet that happens to have a bed wedged in between racks of clothes and stacks of shoe boxes. It's annoyingly cramped, but all that shit insulates against outside noise. She's obviously muffling the sound in her pillow, but I can still hear her, even through the closed doors and thick brick walls and her ostentatious wardrobe.

She's crying.

I slip out of bed and pull on a pair of pajama pants before moving silently across the hall. Her door creaks when I open it, giving me away. "Caroline?" I quietly ask.

"Sorry," she says, snuffling. "I didn't mean to wake you up. I was trying to be quiet."

"You were. You okay?" It's a stupid question because she's obviously not okay, but I ask it anyway, just so I have something to say.

She nods. Even though it's dark, I can see her head moving up and down. "Yeah, I'm good." She's frantically swallowing more tears, trying to sound like she means it. "You can go back to sleep."

I move slowly, even for a human, giving her plenty of time to tell me to fuck off if that's what she wants. Christ knows I don't appreciate an audience when I'm... well... not crying exactly. I don't cry. Not for a long, long time. But I sure as shit don't want company when I'm throwing a pity-party for one. But Caroline doesn't stop me. She doesn't object. And when I get to her bed, she shifts over to one side, leaving me room to slide in next to her.

I lean against the pillows and open my arms without speaking, and she immediately throws her arms around my neck and curls into my side. Once there, her battle is lost and she sobs. The intensity of her crying shakes the bed as she gasps and shudders and leaves trails of tears and snot on my bare chest.

I don't shush her. I don't tell her it'll be okay. I don't tell her to stop crying or ask what's wrong. I don't even complain about getting snotty even though it's seriously disgusting. I just hold her tightly and tuck her head under my chin and let her cry. I hold her because sometimes there aren't words. Sometimes holding on is all anyone can do.

And I get it. We laugh and banter and occasionally throw things at each other, but despite our tumultuous beginning, Caroline and I understand each other. We've planned an epic and dramatic end to a life well-lived. But it's still her life that's ending, and no amount of glittery lights or perfectly timed puns will change that.

It was different when I "died." In the confusion of the vampire round-up, everyone just assumed that someone else put our bodies into the church before the fires were lit. I watched the fire with transitioning eyes, the details too sharp and crisp, the flames alive with colors I didn't have names for and roaring too loudly in my ears. It was too bright, too vivid, the smell of the smoke choking and noxious, when I didn't want to see or hear or smell any of it. I believed I was watching Katherine burn to death. I thought I'd died for nothing because I couldn't save her, and I sure as shit wasn't going to live forever, not without her. I was so weak, so close to death, when Stefan showed up with that girl. Other than cleaning up after his first Ripper party, burning down my mother's house to hide the evidence, there was no one to say goodbye to. No one I would miss when I fled Mystic Falls with Emily's children in tow. And for a long time, there weren't records or identification or documents to forge. Compulsion or killing was enough, and I never stuck around one place or made a life anywhere where someone might notice that I wasn't aging. It wasn't until that last time in Mystic Falls I found somewhere I thought of as home.

"I don't want to die," she finally whispers between sobs.

I rub her back. Any other woman would've been naked and distracted long before now. Part of me wishes I could do that for Caroline. Strip off that tiny silk gown and make her forget everything, including her own name, if only for a few hours. It's one of the things I'm good at. But it's not like that between us. In this moment, I would appreciate it because it would be a simple solution, and I'm good with simple. But Caroline is my friend, my only friend really, and sex would cause long-term complications I don't even want to think about.

"I know," I whisper instead. I don't remind her it's long past due, that she's conspicuous, that it's getting too fucking dangerous. I don't tell her we aren't really killing her because, in all the ways that matter, we are. This incarnation of Caroline Forbes has to die.

"I love my life. I don't want it to end."

"It's not ending, Caroline," I soothe. "It's a beginning. You're starting a new chapter. And you'll love your next life too. It'll be different, but wonderful in its own ways. And so will the one after that. And the one after that."

"I don't want to keep starting over," she cries. "I can't. I can't do this."

I kiss her hair and continue rubbing her back and wait for her to stop crying.

"It's a good thing," I finally say when she's cried herself out. "It means you're not drifting through the world, unattached and unknown. I did that for a long time. Too fucking long. No one would've known if I lived or died, and no one would've cared. Yes, this hurts. It fucking sucks. But it means you're doing it right. You're making it count. You're affecting people's lives, and they care about you. You're really living."

"My death means I'm really living?" she snuffles. "That's retarded."

I smile. "Well, life is ironic."

"Damon Salvatore is half naked and cuddling with me in my bed? Irony doesn't begin to describe life."

"Want me to leave?" I quietly ask.

"No!" She tightens her grip and nuzzles her wet face against my chest. "Please don't go."

"Okay," I say.

"Promise?"

"I have your snot drying on my chest," I say, hoping to lighten the mood. "What more proof do you need of my loyalty?"

I feel it when she smiles. She kisses both my cheeks, and then, so quickly that I can't escape, she blows her nose into the hollow beneath my chin.

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_Author's Post-Script: One of the things I love about fanfic (so many things to love, really, that's it's hard to narrow it down) is the ability to experiment and try new things. I'm sure, my astute readers, you've noticed there's a lot more plot and (what I hope is) witty dialog than in my other fics, something that's been really fun to write. And answering questions, yes, Elena and Stefan will make their presence known, although, since in my AU, Damon never directly speaks to Elena, they don't actually have a moment or anything. But they will turn up. Patience, if you please. Also, there will be smuttiness, just not between Caroline and Damon. Thanks again for reading, and if you've not already, think about checking out my on-going canon-story, Bourbon Before Breakfast. _


	3. Three French Hens

Three French Hens 

"Well?" she asks when she finally steps into the room. Women. Christ. I had to get ready using the Christmas tree mirror because she was hogging the only fucking bathroom. "What do you think?" She spins on beaded stilettos, showing off a tiny red dress that leaves very little to the imagination.

"Took you long enough considering you aren't wearing anything," I say, since she knows damn good and well how smokin' hot she is and doesn't require validation, especially not from me. I swallow the rest of my drink in one gulp and put down my book. "We were supposed to be there over an hour ago, a detail you nagged me about all fucking afternoon."

"Oh whatever," she says. "Like you were doing anything else. Look at you!" she exclaims when I stand up. She motions for me to twirl.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Damon," she sulks. "You promised me this would be my night, and I want the whole effect."

"This is unfair," I mutter. "I made that promise while you were crying. I shouldn't be held to it."

"The great and mighty Damon Salvatore, brought to his knees by a couple tears," she teases.

I let her pretend like last night wasn't a big fucking deal. Sure, Caroline. Just a couple of tears. That's all that was.

"Wow me, dammit."

I give her my best smoldering glance before turning, slowly, enjoying the way she licks her lips while she looks at me. I know damn good and well how fine I look, too. I'm a firm believer in the principle that we're not being cocky, either of us, if it's true.

Caroline made me the suit, and the girl can seriously design clothes. There's a reason she's fucking famous and we have to kill her. Great lines. Classic without being boring. Premium materials and top-notch craftsmanship. I'll be able to wear this suit in a hundred years, and it'll still look good: navy with a subtle pinstripe, pale blue dress shirt open at the collar with platinum cuff links, Hermès belt and shoes.

"Mmm," she murmurs. "Mmm. Mmm."

"Let's go. The car's been waiting."

"Damon, sweetie," she says, turning gracefully so I can put her wrap around her shoulders. In her shoes, she's ever-so-slightly taller than I am. "I'm about to be dead instead of famous. You're the one who reminded me less than twenty-four hours ago to enjoy every second of this life while I still can. So if I take too long deciding on the perfect false eyelashes to go with my earrings and keep everyone waiting, that's my prerogative."

The eyelashes in question are studded with tiny red gems that catch the light just right and glitter in a festive but not obnoxious way. Not many people could pull them off, but on Caroline, they do look good.

"Be late if you want," I agree. "Miss it all together. We can stay home and watch _Love Actually_."

"And not show off?" She gestures at our clothes. "Not on your un-life."

She smiles and accepts my arm, a common courtesy too many women don't appreciate these days, and I carefully steer her out the door and into the hired car, which drives us to a trendy Parisian nightclub. There's a long line waiting to get in, the crowd easily ten-people deep on either side of red velvet ropes.

"You sure about not going around back?" I ask. Pictures are dangerous, especially now that everything is digital. I've had to be careful, these past ten years, to not be photographed with her. There are too many people in the world who are believers, who are looking for proof that creatures like vampires exist. There are websites dedicated to suspected vampires and where to find them, people amassing information. Some of it is the usual bullshit fantasy, but there's enough truth in the fiction to make me fucking hate the paparazzi and love the Stephenie Meyers, who make people think we fucking sparkle.

"You promised me whatever I wanted," she said. "I love an entrance."

"I hate looking like a rock star," I mutter as I don shades and get ready to hide as much of my face as possible without being obvious about it.

"You still look good," she says with a smile.

As the car pulls up, one of the men from the club immediately rushes over, but I beat him to Caroline's door, shouldering him aside so I can open it for her, and I offer her my arm once more. How she steps out without flashing everyone in that tiny dress is a not-so-minor miracle, but among many other things, Miss Mystic Falls is a lady. Like walking in those fucking shoes, modestly sitting and getting out of cars in dresses like that should qualify as super-powers.

Flashbulbs go off in a frenzy of flashing lights, there are shouts of "Mademoiselle," and Caroline beams as she waves to the screaming crowd.

We are ushered inside and past a wall of water with lasers cutting through, turning it different colors to the beat of the music, and into the VIP section, where a group of Caroline's friends are waiting. Kisses and greetings are exchanged, although there's no way anyone but a vampire could hear over the pulsing din of the music. The sultry beat thumps like a heartbeat, and I can feel the vibrations in my bones. My hips start to move of their own volition. How anyone can just sit here and wait instead of dancing with music like this is un-fucking-imaginable. Everyone eyes me with open curiosity, a couple of the girls elbowing each other for a better look and making it quite clear without words that they'd just _love_ to meet me.

"Don't eat any of my friends," Caroline says, her breath warm and moist in my ear.

"A couple look like they'd enjoy it."

She throws back her head and laughs. "I'm sure they would. Still." She squeezes my arm just a little too tightly. "Don't."

"Fine," I agree.

"Dance with me," she says.

"You want a drink?"

"Oh yes." She smiles at me and winks. "I'm starving."

There's my girl. This is turning out to be a very fine evening indeed. I once again offer her my arm, Caroline happily acting like she doesn't notice the jealous looks of her friends when she doesn't introduce me. We move through the crowd to the dance floor, where there's a crush of hot, sweaty, human bodies. We work our way into the center, moving to the music, and we both eye the possibilities like the predators we are.

I never thought I'd say it, but Caroline's good at being a vampire. The club is perfect. In a situation like this, even with hundreds of potential witnesses, no compulsion will be necessary. All we need to do is cull the right people from the pack. A sip here. A sip there. A fuck while dancing. Maybe, if someone's particularly tasty, a trip to one of the large restrooms in the VIP section. They're ours for the taking, and Caroline knows it.

"Want to split up?" Caroline asks in my ear.

I thrust my hips against hers as we dance. "I thought I was your date tonight."

She smiles, the delicate lace of veins flashing momentarily around her eyes before she throws both arms around my neck and grinds against me, biting my earlobe. "So I get to pick?"

I nod, not moving away from her. "We take turns. You can go first, but I need to get laid."

"God, me too!" She surveys the dance floor.

"Her?" I suggest, indicating a pretty little dark haired girl dancing seductively with another girl. "Two for the price of one. I do love a bargain."

Caroline shakes her head and dances with me like we have all the time in the world.

"Him," she finally says with a devilish gleam in her eyes. I turn us on the crowded dance floor and see the man she wants. He's more boy than man, with slim hips and a smooth face. He's dancing with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. He's young and beautiful and an excellent choice.

I know she's daring me, seeing just how far I'll go to keep my "whatever you want, Caroline" promise. Then again, she'd be naive to think I've never been with men. I prefer women, mostly, but there have been notable exceptions over the years. Caroline makes it look easy because she took to being a vampire so quickly and with such grace, and I forget sometimes how young she is. Even if she hadn't been turned, she'd be little more than a baby at this point. She has so much to learn, like once you've been alive-ish for a few decades, really, there's nothing new under the sun, nothing you haven't tried or tasted, if only out of boredom or curiosity.

"Perfect," I agree, moving us through the crowd in his direction. She looks at me with wide, surprised eyes, but she doesn't say anything as I maneuver us towards the boy. He opens his eyes when Caroline threads her arms around his neck.

We're a crush of bodies, the three of us, moving to the beat of the music within the crowd. When she buries her face in the boy's neck, I distract him from the sting of her bite with my lips and my tongue. It's been too fucking long since I've kissed a boy, such a different experience than kissing women, and this one is especially delectable. His mouth is hard and hungry, and he's eager, one hand searching for the front of my pants, the other reaching under her tiny dress as Caroline drinks from him. I feel the vibrations as he moans into my mouth. He finger-fucks Caroline and jerks me off, all three of us entwined and grinding and touching. I feel it, too, when Caroline's body shudders its pleasure, and she leans back into me for a moment, allowing me to bear her weight as she comes. I continue kissing him and watch when she bites her tongue, bathing the wounds in his neck with her blood until they disappear. Then she licks his skin clean, effectively erasing all evidence.

Oh yeah. Caroline's very, very good at this. And now that I'm hungry from watching her and have a raging hard-on tenting my trousers, it's my turn.

He objects, the boy, and tries to pull me back when I step away from him. I allow myself one more deep, probing kiss while Caroline watches, obviously enjoying the show. I suck his tongue into my mouth and bite his bottom lip with blunt teeth while he grasps me so hard I moan. But despite my own longing for his obvious talents, I steer Caroline back into the crowd, away from the temptation. We can't both drink from the same person unless we want a body to deal with, and I'm not ruining my suit to dig shallow graves.

My little dark-haired girl is still with her friend, and she fucks me with her eyes as I move us closer to them. The girls' dresses are even smaller than Caroline's, and a sweep of my hands reveals both are bare and already dripping underneath, even before my fingers pinch and tease and probe inside their wet heat. How convenient, how very social of them. And people say Parisians aren't friendly?

"You in?" I ask Caroline as I lick the taste of the girls from my fingers.

"I've never..." she says, hesitating.

Before she can finish, I rub my thumb along her bottom lip, wiping the last of the fragrant wetness onto her. There's a flash of pink as her tongue sneaks out to taste it, and she sucks my thumb into her mouth, swirling her tongue around it and biting with blunt teeth as she savors any lingering juices like a fine vintage.

I pull the girls closer to us, keeping the dark haired one for myself, dipping my fingers back under her dress. She's hot and tight and writhes against my hand while my thumb works her into a quivery, pliable mess. The other girl immediately begins rubbing against Caroline, pinching her nipple through her dress while probing her ear with the delicate point of her tongue. Oh yes. These are very friendly Parisians.

"Damon," Caroline says, her voice already breathy even though she just fed and came. "A girl...?"

"Laissez les bons temps rouler."

"This is Paris, not New Orleans," she says.

"It's fucking French."

Her laugh turns into a moan as her girl's hands reach under her dress. I smile at Caroline, letting her see my fangs, before burying them into the neck of my little dark-haired girl. Her heart is pounding so I don't have to suck, her blood pumping deliciously into my mouth without effort. She gasps with pleasure as my fingers thrust in time to the music, and before I'm even done with my drink, she's frantically pulling down my zipper. I heal her wounds and lick her neck clean before grasping her hips and pulling her right where I need her to be.


	4. Four Calling Birds

Four Calling Birds

Caroline's phone rings all the fucking time, one thing I will definitely not miss when we're laying low on the other side of the planet because she's dead. I have a phone, but only two people have the number, and since I'm living with the only one who ever calls, I haven't turned it on since I arrived in Paris.

Caroline talks more than enough for both of us, most of it in fluent French, but also English and respectable Italian and not-too-awful German, depending on who she's speaking to and why. It's obvious, from what I can't help but overhear, she's not only securing her own finances, she's also running an international business and trying to ensure her relatively young design label carries on without her. And she's doing all that without tipping off anyone that she's about to meet a fiery end.

Yes, it's annoying as all fuck, but I have to give it to her: Caroline Forbes is impressive. She could command armies or take over the entire fucking planet.

But what never ceases to amaze me is how seamlessly she shifts from talking about investments and production and clothing designs, to chit-chatting about every water-cooler scandal that's happening on the globe, to discussing the goriest of personal stories from an obscene number of friends. Some of them have quite a flair for description, I might add. I love a good fuck as much as the next guy, maybe even more, but a week with Caroline and I've overheard some sordid tales of debauchery that would make Liz blush. Or maybe unholster her sidearm and start threatening to shoot people.

Actually, that would be really entertaining...

With the barrage of calls at all hours, I don't give it much thought when her phone rings, even though it's a ringtone I've never heard before and Caroline moves into the room where I'm reading rather than out of it, like she usually does when she's talking on the phone.

I don't even consider why that's strange until I hear the voice on the other end.

Elena.

"Caroline," she says. "I am so incredibly sorry. I know we're supposed to be flying in tomorrow, but Jeremy just called, and the baby's coming sooner than they expected."

What the fuck?

I set down my drink before I drop it and ruin my book.

They're flying in? Elena and Stefan? Here? Flying to Paris? Fucking tomorrow?

Me and Caroline and Stefan and Elena in Paris?

Fucking Caroline.

"Is Mia alright? The baby's not due for another month." Caroline asks, sitting down on the sofa so I can hear everything whether I want to or not. I would have to leave the room, probably the apartment, to not hear the voice on the other end of that phone. As much as I want to, as much as part of me is screaming to flee because this is too much to fucking endure, most of me just needs to hear her voice again.

It's been so fucking long.

Elena.

"Jeremy says they're both fine, although I think he's more worried than he's letting on. The baby's going to be small, but I guess the doctor is confident there won't be complications, and there's no stopping him at this point. We're heading there now. Stefan's speeding, actually."

"Hi Caroline," Stefan chimes in from the background.

"Hey Stefan."

"I tried to talk her out of it," he says. "And she's trying to say I'm driving like a madman for Jeremy, but she's making me. I get scolded if we're going less than ninety. I've already had to compel two cops. She wants to get her hands on that baby."

I hear a sound that's probably Elena swatting him on the arm in retaliation. He says it lightly, like it's a joke, but I know my brother. I know how he broods and worries, and there's no fucking way he doesn't feel guilty about Elena not being able to have his kids. He probably wouldn't admit it, not to me or her or anyone, but yeah, Stefan's feeling like a complete fucking failure right now. But he'd do anything for her. Walk through fire. Rip out his own heart. Speed so he can watch her hold someone else's baby and wish it were hers, which will be it's own kind of heart-ripping and far more painful than the literal tearing open of his chest.

He's a goddamn hero.

"He makes it sound like I'm going to kidnap my own nephew," Elena says. "Did I tell you? They found out he's a boy. Jeremy says they're going to name him Grayson, for our dad."

"That's great," Caroline says.

"They were going to name him Grayson Alaric," Elena continues. "Until Stefan had to point out that his initials would spell GAG."

"I'm taking a lot of heat on this one, but it's true," Stefan says. "Back me up, Caroline. I was thinking of the poor kid and monograms."

I have to give that one to my brother. It's all fine and fucking dandy to be nostalgic about namesakes, but having a shitty monogram just sucks.

"I keep reminding them that Stefan is a good, solid name," he teases, making Elena laugh.

Caroline is unusually quiet and I can hear the way her phone creaks in protest because she's holding it too tightly.

"I need to be here right now," Elena says. "If it's alright with you, I think we'll stay put and have an early Christmas with them? I want to spend time with Matt and the girls, and the baby..."

Caroline bites her lip and swallows. "Of course," she says brightly. It almost sounds good, but since I have the benefit of seeing her face, I can tell she's not at all pleased with the sudden change of plans. "Of course you want to be with Jeremy."

"Caroline?" Stefan quietly asks. I can tell that he can hear how upset she is. Caroline's a goddamn miserable liar.

"What's going on?" Elena demands.

"Caroline?" Stefan repeats.

"Caroline, is everything okay?" Elena asks. "Stefan, what's happening? What can you hear?"

"It's great," Caroline says. She shakes her head and swallows a couple times and takes a deep breath before continuing, sounding much more like herself. "Why wouldn't it be great? You're going to be an aunt! That's so... great... I was just looking forward to seeing you."

"Oh, I miss you too!" Elena says. "I really am sorry. We won't stay too long with Jeremy..."

"No," Caroline interrupts. "Take your time. Enjoy the baby."

"You sure?" Stefan asks.

"It's great," Caroline says.

"We'll change our flight and get into Paris a few days before Christmas? I promise we'll not miss a single one of your parties. You should see the dresses I've picked out. Stefan and I spent a couple weeks in New York shopping. A few of them are yours. Do you know how much you charge for a dress?"

"You should see the bill from that little adventure," Stefan teases. There's another swatting sound.

"You didn't have to pay for any of mine," Caroline says, still sounding perfectly normal but wiping her eyes with a single finger. She looks even more fucking beautiful when she's crying, which is just goddamn unfair. "You can come to the shop when you're here. Take anything you want. You too, Stefan. I have a couple suits in the spring line you'll look quite dashing in."

"I've missed you so much," Elena says. "I really have. If it were anything other than Grayson..."

"I understand, sweetie," Caroline assures her. "He's your first nephew. Of course you need to be there."

"We'll stick around afterwards, okay? I can't wait to meet all your friends and see everything. I want the full Caroline Forbes tour. We'll stay in Paris for as long as you'll have us."

"Great," Caroline agrees. "That sounds great. We can do everything we'd planned after the parties. We have all the time in the world. Paris is beautiful in the spring."

"Caroline?" Elena asks. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm great. I just... Well... I have someone on the other line. London..."

"I'm so sorry!" she quickly says. "Here I've been, babbling, and you're working."

"It's... great..." Caroline says.

"I'll call as soon as the baby's here, okay? And send pictures right away."

"She just wants to hold him," Stefan adds.

"Give everyone kisses for me," Caroline says before hanging up.

The sudden silence is too loud and neither one of us even breathes as we sit and pointedly not look at each other.

Well, isn't this just fucking _great_.

"She doesn't know, does she?" I quietly ask. "That she can't see your life and all you've accomplished after the ball because you're going to be dead? Does she know you're dying, that I'm fucking killing you, or does she think it's just Christmas in Paris?"

Caroline doesn't look at me.

"Caroline?"

Silence.

"Caroline, fucking answer me."

"Stefan knows, of course. He was there this fall when we were planning, but we thought it'd be best..." Her voice trails off.

Fucking Stefan.

"You're the one who said the fewer people who know..." she says.

Fucking Caroline.

Yes, I keep telling her that the fewer people who know the better. But I didn't fucking mean her. Elena's not 'people,' for fuck's sake. They're not giving her enough credit, keeping her in the dark like this. Firstborn nephew or not, I know Elena, and she wouldn't play house and hold babies she can't ever have if she knew her best friend needed her.

There is a heavy silence before I have to ask, "Does Stefan know I'm here?"

She doesn't move or answer.

"Caroline," I say, trying but mostly failing to keep the edge out of my voice. "Does Stefan fucking know that I'm here?"

"I was going to tell you," she says, still not looking at me. "That they were coming. I thought..."

Once again, she doesn't finish her statement.

Fucking _great_.

"When? When were you going to tell me, since they were supposed to arriving tomorrow?"

She doesn't answer, which is fine because she's a fucking terrible liar and I know damn good and well she wasn't going to tell me. They didn't know, and I wouldn't know, and they'd just show up and we'd all be standing in Caroline's living room that's already too small even without the goddamn tree that takes up too much space and fucking stinks.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Goddammit.

Caroline and her brilliant fucking ambushes.

I clear my throat so I don't scream. "Well, all's well that ends well," I choke out, swallowing the rest of my drink and flashing to the door. "I owe baby Grayson an even bigger trust fund than I'd planned on giving him for making his grand entrance ahead of schedule."

"Wait!" Caroline flashes to my side and stands in front of the door. "I was going to tell you. I just wasn't sure how. And I thought, well, it being Christmas and all..."

"What were you fucking thinking?" I ask.

Caroline looks away before finally shaking her head. "I don't know. I just thought..."

"What? What did you fucking think?"

"Don't yell," she says, her voice dangerously close to cracking with tears. So help me, if she fucking cries right now...

"I'll yell if I goddamn want to. You have no fucking right." I punch the wall too close to her face, showering her hair and the floor with crumbled brick and masonry. Caroline flinches but doesn't step away, and my knuckles are bleeding and stinging and it's not enough to distract me from the ache in my chest.

"Damon, listen. I know you have your arrangement with Stefan and all, I just thought, after all this time..." She doesn't finished another fucking sentence.

Goddammit.

Fuck.

Fucking fuck fuck fuck.

"It's been ten years, Damon. Ten years. And I'll call Stefan, if you want. I'll tell him, and I'll tell her. No surprises."

Fuck.

"The four of us are a family, Damon. We should be together. While we still can. Before it's too late."

The fact that Stefan's not going to turn her lies heavy and unspoken between us. Caroline is the one "dying" this time, but when Elena dies, it will be for real. Forever.

Fuck.

Breathe.

"You miss her," Caroline cajoles. "She misses you. I know you and Stefan miss each other. I'm stuck in the middle. We all hate it. No one ever talks about it. It's just stupid..."

"It's fucking necessary." I yell, punching the wall again. Caroline closes her eyes and clenches her jaw, and fuck her for making me feel like an asshole because this is her fucking fault.

"Damon," she quietly says.

"Do you think this is what I fucking want?" I interrupt.

Fucking Caroline.

"It doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to be alone." She grabs my arm to keep me from hitting the wall a third time, and I shake her off too hard. She loses her balance, stumbling across the room and into the side table. The lamp and my empty glass shatter on the floor.

Goddammit.

Fuck.

"Don't. Ever. Do. This. Again."

"I'm sorry," she says, flashing back to my side. "I should have told you."

I don't answer.

"Please don't leave," she whispers. Begs.

Goddammit.

"Please," she repeats. "I need you." Her eyes are threatening to spill tears.

"No you don't," I say. "No one does."

The door slams too loudly on my way out, and I stomp down the stairs just slightly too fast for a human. But I need to go before I do something stupid and ruin everything, like snap her neck or make her snap mine or smash her fucking tree.


	5. Five Golden Rings

Five Golden Rings 

Okay, so I might've overreacted.

Maybe. Just a little bit.

Fuck me, what did Caroline expect? My only friend lied in an effort to throw me into the arms of the only girl I will ever love who I can never have because I love my brother even more.

Merry fucking Christmas.

But I didn't kill anyone. I should get credit. Lots and lots of credit to save for some rainy day when I have, in fact, killed someone I probably shouldn't have killed. Stick around long enough, it's inevitable. I'm good at fucking and killing. That's it. That's all I know how to do. Which is why I spent the night wandering around Paris, drinking bourbon and drinking blood and fucking too many girls and that one boy because the other night at the club got me in mood, and they all survived to not remember the tale.

I'm a vampire. I like to kill, and sometimes assholes are asking for it, and it happens. But mostly, I don't because I know she wouldn't want me to. She always believed that I was a good man, and even though she can't see it, I try to be.

And now my grand gesture is going to look like an apology. It's not a fucking apology. Yes, I may have damaged some historic brickwork and then stormed out like a fucking child, but I don't have anything to be sorry for. It was Caroline's fucking fault. And I commissioned the ornament months ago. Found the perfect pair of Christian Louboutins to tuck it into for St. Nicholas Day. Call me a traditionalist, but I like the red soles.

It's hard sneaking up on a vampire, but I manage. I got everything set up just so on her dresser without waking her up, the new shoes sitting on top of their box, the phoenix tucked into one.

It feels like only seconds later when I'm awoken by a flying girl flopping onto my bed.

"Jesus!" I exclaim. "What the fuck?"

"You're naked," Caroline observes, wrinkling her nose. "Gross. Do you always sleep naked?"

"Only if the thread count's decent," I snap. Like she's wearing much more, with another one of her tiny nightgowns.

"Ew."

"Then get the fuck out." But I pull the covers over my hips and make room for her on the bed.

She's wearing the shoes, and they look good. Any other man awoken by the sight of Caroline wearing only four-inch stilettos and silk negligee would think he'd died and gone to heaven.

She has the phoenix cupped in her hand. Even with the window shades drawn to protect her clothes, it shimmers. It's done in the Fabergé-style, red enamel studded with rubies. The eyes are diamonds, its wings gold. It's sitting on a nest of orange flames, their centers blue and purple and glittering with sapphires.

"It's..." she says, her eyes wet.

"For fuck's sake, don't you dare cry."

"It's beautiful," she sniffs.

"It's for your tree next year," I say. "It's a phoenix."

She nods.

"I chose Christmastime for a reason." She settles her head against my shoulder, her eyes still on the bird. "This time of year has been sacred since there've been people because it's the coming of lighter days. Of hope in the darkness." She sniffs again. "It's the darkest before the dawn, Caroline."

"And I'll be reborn?" she quietly asks.

"Yes. You'll be reborn." I kiss the top of her head. "Happy St. Nicholas Day."

"Oh," she says. "I thought it was an..."

"St. Nicholas Day," I loudly repeat. "Christ, woman! Do you think that thing was just lying around last night? I had it made for you. Fuck."

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I should've told you, about Stefan and..."

"Drop it," I interrupt. I don't even want to hear her name, and the fact that Caroline's specifically sorry for not telling me, not for doing it, makes me... Fuck. I don't know how I feel. But at least she's honest.

"I really love my shoes, too." She stretches out her legs and moves her feet this way and that so we can both admire them.

"Your next boyfriend will thank me when you dress like a porn star."

She playfully swats me before setting back into bed, looking at her phoenix rather than me. "And now I feel like a jerk because I didn't get you anything. I mean, I have your Christmas present..."

"I'm not going to be here for Christmas," I say. "I have plans. And not because of..." My voice trails off. "I had them before."

"Okay," she carefully replies, like she doesn't believe a word I'm saying but isn't going to argue with me. "I always forget about St. Nicholas Day. We never celebrated it when I was kid."

"Well, when in France and all."

"Damon, about yesterday..."

I wrap my arms around her and kiss the top of her head again so she'll stop fucking talking.

I can't be distracted. There are too many things that can go wrong. There's too much to lose if this plan goes to shit, like all our plans used to. Good Christ, did we work our asses off to plan epic failures.

This plan must not, cannot, fucking fail. Caroline's life depends on my ability to convincingly kill her, and I can't have ghosts of Christmas past waltzing through the door unannounced. It's a recipe for fucking disaster.

I know Caroline didn't mean to make me mad. Or whatever the hell I am. Mad isn't the right word. But I'm not good with words, not any of the ones that matter.

"Happy St. Nicholas Day, Caroline."


	6. Six Geese A-Laying

Six Geese a Laying 

"Scoot," I say to Caroline. She's perched on the only tiny bit of counter space, right where I need to work, not doing a goddamn thing but standing in the way, watching me and drinking coffee. "Why is this fucking kitchen so small?"

"Because I don't need to eat," she says, like I'm the stupidest person on the planet.

"And yet all you've done since I've been here is stuff your face."

She shrugs but moves out of my way. "You're a good cook." I wipe off where she was sitting and get to work with a chopping board and fresh green onions, asparagus, and spinach I bought at the market early this morning.

"How does a vampire become a cook anyway?" she asks. "That sounds like a story."

"I'm sure you can make up a suitably tragic answer," I answer.

"Don't be that way," Caroline pouts. "You're quite stingy with the sharing of personal details. Would it really be so terrible to tell me why you learned to cook?"

She refills her coffee cup and pours one for me, adding a generous splash of bourbon to it, just the way I like, before sliding it across the counter. I stop chopping and take a sip.

"I was interested in cooking when I was still alive," I finally admit. "It carried over."

She beams. "You cooked when you were human? Ahh! That's adorable!"

Christ. And she wonders why I don't fucking tell her things.

"But wait," she says. "Wasn't that sort-of... unusual... for that time? A man cooking?"

I nod. "It was. Pissed off my father something fierce. Thought I was too soft." I take a big swallow of my coffee and go back to chopping.

"Oh no!" she says. "You don't get to stop there. I want the whole story."

"There isn't a story, Caroline."

"I'm so calling your bullshit. Spill."

I look at her, and she's staring resolutely back at me, and I roll my eyes before adding, "My favorite slave ran the kitchen at our house. I spent a lot of time with her, and, well, I paid attention."

She wrinkles up her nose and looks vaguely nauseated. "Damon, your 'favorite slave'? That's disgusting and offensive. You can't say that."

"You're the one who fucking asked," I snap. Fuck me. Did she want me to lie and say ours was the only land-owning family in the Commonwealth of Virginia that didn't own slaves? "Yes, my family owned her, and that's terribly and offensively wrong, but we did. I told you to make up your own fucking story."

"Damon," she says.

"No," I interrupt. "Shut up and drink your coffee."

"Is she why you fought for the Confederacy?" she asks.

"No," I snap. "I would love to be able to tell you I happily went off to war to fight for her freedom, and for all the people like her who shouldn't have been bought and paid for, but I didn't. I went and killed people I didn't fucking know and had no quarrel with to make my father happy, only it didn't work because I was never fucking good enough for him, no matter how many Yankees I killed, and I killed fucking plenty. Is that fucking tragic enough for you?"

There is only the sound of bacon popping on the stove and my furious chopping.

"I'm sorry," she finally whispers. "Please finish. I won't judge."

Yeah, like that's fucking likely.

"Damon? Please. Tell me. What was her name?"

I have to swallow several times and take deep breaths my head needs but my lungs don't.

"Mary," I quietly say. "Her name was Mary. And yes, slavery is wrong. But when I was a boy, I didn't care about that or the politics. All I knew was that she loved me."

God, after my mother died, Mary was the only one... "She fucking loved me," I whisper.

"She took care of you?" Caroline quietly asks.

I shake my head and pour more bourbon into my coffee cup. "Not like you're thinking. Stefan's wet-nurse acted as, well, I guess you'd call her a nanny now. But her first priority was always Stefan, even when he wasn't a baby. She made sure I took baths and went to bed, but that was about it. And I had my tutor, of course. I mean, it's not like I was neglected."

"But Mary was different?" Caroline asks. "She's the one who taught you how to cook?" I nod. "She did a good job."

"She did."

I've always found cooking both soothing and fascinating. How you take this stuff, most of it nothing you'd want to even consider putting in your mouth, and you mix it together, and you add the right amount of time and heat, and it's transformed. It's like magic, only magic that makes sense and doesn't fucking suck. I learned during the war that no matter how fucking miserable a person is, how sad or angry or alone or guilty, they'll feel better after eating well-prepared food.

Stefan has his journals; I cook. We're both fucking pussies.

"What happened to her?" Caroline asks.

"She was old, and she died while I was away."

Caroline bites her bottom lip. "Away at war?" I nod. "So she never got to be free?"

"No, Caroline," I say. "She didn't. Life is often unfair and ironic and cruel. We usually don't get what we want. What is it with your incessant need for happy fucking endings?"

"Well, there's a cheerful thought first thing in the morning." She clicks her coffee mug against mine. "Merry Christmas."

"Shut up and drink your coffee," I repeat.

"So," Caroline continues, completely ignoring me for the second time. "Now that I've got you in a chatty mood, are you ever going to tell me how all this is going to work? Do I get to know the plan, since it is my death and all?"

I shake my head. "Nope. You don't need to know."

"You do realize how patronizing that is, don't you?" she sulks. "That you don't feel I need to know about my own death?"

"Interpret any way you'd like," I tell her, tossing the vegetables into the hot pan where I'd just cooked bacon and listen to them sizzle. "It's for your own good. You're a goddamn miserable liar, and you have twelve nights of parties leading up to the grand finale. I've worked too hard to have to you fuck it up at the very end."

She rolls her eyes and grabs a croissant. "Asshole," she mutters.

"And proud," I agree, whisking the eggs with a little bit of cream. "Look, the truth is that you have to break some eggs to make omelets..."

"You did not just say that while you're making frickin' omelets," she interrupts.

I roll my eyes at her before pouring the eggs into the pan. "You don't like breaking eggs, Caroline. I'm doing you a favor by breaking them for you and not telling you about it."

She looks worried, and I have to turn my back and pretend the omelet requires a great deal of concentration. The truth is, I don't like keeping her in the dark anymore than she likes being in the dark, but I can't afford any mistakes.

I found the girl in Odessa. Anna. She's perfect, just the right height and build. With a little help from my favorite shady physician, Dr. Meredith Fell, her dental records and blood type will be a match for Caroline Forbes, if they have any blood left to type.

No one, not even with compulsion, could tell me Anna's story, only that she'd been at the brothel since she was very young. Four or so. No one knew exactly how old she was or who her mother was or how she'd ended up there. Anna was destined for a hard life and a painful death of some terrible disease or at the hands of a brute with money. The fact that I'd compelled her pimp to take better care of the rest of the girls is my consolation prize, but I'm not sure Caroline will see it that way.

Anna's compelled and lives nearby in an apartment with a compelled companion who won't remember anything. She's enjoying the rest of her life in comfort and luxury. She isn't going to suffer. She won't be afraid or even suspect when I snap her neck, and she'll already be dead when Caroline's M6 crashes in a fiery spectacle, her body burned beyond recognition.

I have Caroline's new paperwork all ready. It's a simple matter of compelling the right people, of changing the date of birth, occasionally adding a different middle initial just to switch things up. I showed Caroline how to do it when we were in Mystic Falls for our little reunion a couple months ago. I don't want her dependent on me or anyone else to take care of this shit, and she'll have to update every ten years or so. And while Liz is tearfully burying her beloved only daughter in Mystic Falls, and Elena speaks at the funeral, and Matt and Jeremy bring their wives and families, and everyone is really sad about poor, poor Caroline, we'll be long gone, off the grid and laying low for the next six months or so.

Caroline doesn't want to let people think she's dead. She doesn't want any tears. Like it would work if no one believes it? I'm not sorry for all the sadness. They'll get over it later. Or they won't. Whatever. I don't give a fuck. By then, Caroline will be safe, and that's all that matters.

"I want you to enjoy your festivities," I say, sliding her omelet onto a plate. "You should have a really good time being famous and smile and let your picture be splashed on the covers of all those terrible gossip magazines you love. Let me worry about the rest."

"Caveman," she mutters.

I hold up a single black truffle: "Pièce de résistance."

"You _so_ had to compel someone to get that."

"Fuck yeah I did."

It's a little early in the season for black truffles, but I smelled this one from a mile away and had to have it. I smile at Caroline and shave paper-thin slices on top of her omelet. "Your breakfast, mademoiselle," I say with a flourish as I hand her her plate.

"When will you tell me?"

I freshen up my coffee and pretend like I didn't hear her.

"Damon," she says, her mouth full of food. "When?"

"Disgusting. When you're not chewing like a fucking animal."

She opens her mouth and waggles a wad of partially chewed omelet on her tongue. I can't help but laugh and throw a croissant at her, which she easily catches.

"When, Damon?" she seriously asks.

"After," I say. "Let's just enjoy the holiday, okay? And the night of the ball, when I come and get you, I need you to do exactly what I say. That's all I'm asking. And once we're out of the country, I promise I'll tell you whatever you want to know."

"You're killing someone, aren't you?" she quietly asks. "Someone who will be identified as me."

"Have you ever eaten an omelet with eggs that haven't been broken?" I ask. "Your mouth would be full of fucking shells."


	7. Seven Swans A-Swimming

_A/N: I'm been taken out by a viscous flu, so this is short. But Damon soaking in the tub is its own kind of medicine. I hope you enjoy._

* * *

Seven Swans a Swimming

"Caroline Forbes!" I shout from the bathroom where I'm soaking in the tub. It's not as nice as mine at home, but desperate times and all. I still love a bath.

"Yes, Damon Salvatore?" she sweetly asks from outside the door.

"Get your ass in here."

"Gross. And you're what? The king of... well... someplace where they demand an audience when they're in the bathtub?"

"Goddammit. Get over yourself," I snap. When she dutifully opens the door, I wave the two-page spread of the old _US Weekly_ at her. "What the fuck is this?"

She looks like she would blush, if she could. Instead she tries to smile and clears her throat. "My mom sent it this summer. She thought it was funny."

"'Caroline Forbes' Mystery Man?'" I read aloud from the headline.

The pictures are of us from a trip off the coast of Monaco. We'd "borrowed" a small yacht for a few days in July and had quite the nice time. I'm wearing a straw fedora and Ray Bans, but it's obviously me. In a Speedo. In a magazine. With Caroline, who's wearing a tiny green bikini. The pictures are shitty quality, grainy as fuck and taken with a telephoto lens, but it's unmistakably us. Lounging together. Her head thrown back in laughter. Me tossing my drink onto her bare stomach. Her with her tongue in my ear.

I've worked hard to keep my picture out of these fucking things, and she knows that, and she didn't tell me we had a two-page spread. For years now, since she and Tyler split, we're together in public, and the paparazzi love Caroline. But I'm careful. She's not, and that's why I'm going to all this trouble to fucking kill her.

"I thought it was funny," she says. "I mean, like you'd ever be my man. That's pretty hilarious."

"Caroline," I begin.

"What?" she interrupts. "It's not my fault. They were obviously really far away. Besides, look at you." She snatches the magazine from my hand and examines it. "You look good. My mom thought you'd look good." She rolls her eyes. "I swear, she has a crush on you, while simultaneously she wants me to be with you. It's weird... And maybe just a little bit creepy, now that I've said it out loud for the first time. Ew."

"I always look good," I say. "That's not the point."

"What is your point?"

"Who else..." I still can't say her name. "Who else has seen this?"

Caroline looks at me, understanding exactly who I mean. "I don't know. She didn't mention it."

Like she would. "Never mind," I snap. "Just..."

"Damon," Caroline begins.

"It's not funny, okay."

She nods. "If she were looking," Caroline says in a calm and reasonable voice, as if I'm completely fucking nuts and overreacting, which I may be. "And I don't know that she is. But if she did, all she would see is that we were on a trip together. That doesn't mean she thinks we're _together. _Not that it would matter if we were. You're not with her. You're allowed to move on, to find someone else, to be in love."

"Go away," I say.

"You're the one who summoned me!" she says, quite indignant.

"Well, now I'm dismissing you."

"You don't get to dismiss me. This is my bathroom."

I cup a handful of water and splash it right in her face.

"Asshole," she says, grabbing a towel and slamming the door as she leaves.

"I keep telling you that," I answer, knowing full well she can hear me even if she doesn't answer.


	8. Eight Maids A-Milking

Eight Maids A-Milking

"Damon, I don't need _you_ to buy me lingerie," Caroline protests as I open the door and force her inside the shop.

"Stop being a brat. One can never have too much lingerie."

"Your American friend is correct," the saleslady says to Caroline.

"Well thank you, Hélène," I say, reading from her name-tag. "See?" I say to Caroline. "Hélène agrees with me."

"Well," Caroline sarcastically replies, rolling her eyes, "If Hélène agrees, who am I to argue?"

Hélène bats her long eyelashes and gives me a sultry smile. "Did you have something special in mind, monsieur, for your..."

"Friend," Caroline hastily adds.

"For your friend?" Hélène asks.

Oh, how I love a Parisian lingerie shop. They really know how to do it right, from the discretely flirtatious saleswoman with ample and well-displayed assets right down to the Christmas tree decorated with delicate ornaments. There's never judgment or shame, and Hélène wouldn't blink an uncompelled eye if I were buying presents for my wife, my mistress, and my _friend_.

"I'm a man who'll know what I want when I see it." I wink and give her a smoldering gaze while Caroline quietly snorts.

"You've come to the right place, monsieur."

"Excellent. I leave myself in your capable hands."

In a shop like this, where nothing has price tags because if you have to ask how much you can't afford it anyway, there's an art to buying, and since Caroline and I don't have any plans for the rest of the afternoon, I allow Hélène to work her magic, plying us with champagne and showing us various options.

"Lighten up," I whisper to Caroline after Hélène settles me onto a loveseat and measures Caroline before bustling off to find correct sizes. "You're spoiling my fun."

"Oh yeah. Buying me bras is your idea of a good time," she whispers back. "What are you doing?"

"Shopping."

"Seriously, Damon?"

"Seriously," I say. "I need you to pick out about two weeks worth of undergarments."

"Did Damon Salvatore, vampire Casanova, just use the word 'undergarment'?"

"Fuck off and pick, Caroline," I snap, "Or I'll pick for you. Or hell, go commando. I don't give a shit."

"Pick for what?"

"For me to fucking pack."

Caroline bites her bottom lip. "Oh."

She hasn't realized it yet, but I've already snatched her favorite jeans and boots, and we're about to be a long way from lingerie shops. I know Caroline, and she's a girl who enjoys roughing it about as much as I do. But we're leaving Paris the night of the ball, flying under false names to India, where we'll then travel to our final destination, a walking tour of Bhutan and Tibet. If we follow my itinerary, which I plan on doing even though following plans really isn't my thing, it's going to be rough going for the first few weeks, the treks in Bhutan colder and windier than other parts of the Himalayas. Higher, too, although lack of oxygen isn't going to be a problem for either one of us. There are definitely more comfortable places to vanish for the next six or seven months, and we'll go there next, tiny tropical islands and anonymous foreign cities, but something made me decide to start our journey at the top of the world.

"Mademoiselle?" Hélène says. "Come with me to try?"

Saved by the fucking bell. Thank Christ Caroline stops asking questions and gets busy shopping.

You can learn a lot about a woman by her lingerie. That was true in 1864, and even though women's lingerie has changed, it's still true. Fuck the eyes being windows to the soul. There are a lot of factors that affect pupil dilation. The real glimpses of who she is are hidden in her delicates drawer. Harder to see, but far more accurate.

When I was human, it was impossible to know what a lady really thought or felt or believed because it was all so fucking polite. Drove me batshit crazy, the corsets and chaperons and lace gloves and fake smiles. Katherine was a breath of fresh air. After the first time she took me to her bed, I had to help her redress. I knelt on the floor, one delicate foot resting on my knee while I carefully readied her silk stocking. My fingers circling her bare ankle was the sexiest thing I'd ever experienced, and I dipped my head to lick and kiss and taste her skin there. I felt so bold, daring to caress her ankle with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. I was drunk on the heady intoxication of new love, and if I'd died right then and there, I would've been a happy man.

"See anything you like, monsieur?"

"Oh, Hélène," I say with a sigh, resting my head on the back of the loveseat. "I just don't know how I'm ever going to choose." The truth is that I really don't care what kind of salacious underwear Caroline wears.

"Your friend is a lucky lady, yes?" She sets aside the latest round of jewel-tone unmentionables and refills my champagne glass.

"I don't know that anyone would consider themselves lucky to call me a friend," I honestly answer. Why the hell not? Hélène isn't going to remember us, and even if she did, she wouldn't tell anyone my secrets. "I'm not really 'friend' material, if you know what I mean."

"No?" she says with a knowing smile.

"I have other talents," I explain, pulling her closer to me so I can run my tongue along the pulse in her jugular. I feel her heart race as I gently suck the tender layer of skin that stands between me and and what I want.

Hélène sighs and relaxes into my embrace as I work my way down, licking and sucking and biting with blunt teeth until I can lose myself between her warm tits. I push aside her bra, forcing them up, blue-veined and overflowing my hands, her nipples pebbling delightfully under my tongue.

"Oh good grief," I hear Caroline mutter from the dressing room. "Don't mind me. I'll just help myself."

"You do that," I reply, knowing Caroline can hear me. "Take your time."

Time, both endless and instantaneous, a vampire's blessing and fucking curse.

Hélène cries out and arches into my mouth when I bite, and just for this moment, there is nothing but her blood and the delicious scent of her arousal and the thumping of her heartbeat as loud as a drum.


	9. Nine Ladies Dancing

Nine Ladies Dancing

"If you don't hold still," Caroline scolds through a mouthful of pins, "I'm never going to get this right." I'm standing in the living room on a stool, wearing only tuxedo slacks and seriously fan-fucking-tastic new shoes, while she's down on the floor, a piece of white chalk tucked behind her ear.

"I thought we already did all this measuring shit back in the fall. It's not like I've grown, Caroline."

"Yes, but that was before you decided to wear different shoes, you big jerk. I want you to look perfect."

"Christ. If you'd told me I'd have to go through this again, I wouldn't have bought the new fucking shoes."

"We both know that's a big, fat lie. The shoes are fabulous. I just need to make a slight adjustment, which wouldn't take this long if you stopped moving."

The new tux is really fucking something, which I why I can't help but run my fingers over the fabric, my movements incurring the wrath of Caroline. It's lighter than wool and silky to the touch, but somehow without a sheen. Hangs fucking beautifully. I'm never letting anyone else make me a tuxedo. Ever.

"What's this made out of, anyway? "

Caroline smiles around her pins. "A magician never reveals her secrets. There." She gets to her feet and steps back, admiring her own handiwork. "Yes. Perfect. My work here is done, so if you lack for dance partners the night of the ball, it's entirely your fault."

More likely than not, I'll be too busy executing my plan to actually dance at the ball. But I love Caroline's fucking optimism, and it's a nice thought, hiding behind a mask and a perfect tuxedo, completely anonymous, dancing with anyone I want...

"Let me double-check the jacket for you."

"Not on your un-life," I say, stepping down from the stool. "I've played dress-up enough for one day."

She shakes her head. "No. This is my party, dammit, so you have to do what I say. Back up there, Kate Moss. I'm not through with you."

She pulls a white dress shirt out of the garment bag and hands it to me to put on. I roll my eyes but do as she commands, slipping my arms through the fabric.

The bright crispness of the shirt makes the slacks look even more black, and she stands in front of me with a jeweler's box.

"Here," she says without ceremony. "Since you won't be here for Christmas." She looks down, toeing the floor in an unusual display of uncertainty. "I mean, what do you get the guy who doesn't want anything?"

I open the box. Inside are platinum and black onyx studs and cuff links. Not the artificially colored onyx that's so commonplace, either, but the real-deal kind. As black as my new tuxedo, the absence of color its own kind of beauty. Sitting next to the accessories for my tux is a new Montblanc, also platinum and onyx, and obviously a special order that Caroline had made for me.

The pen is perfectly balanced and proportioned for my hand. Just the right size, with just the right grip and right weight. It's a fucking work of art.

I clear my throat because I don't know what to say.

"Let me," she says, saving me from having to speak. She takes the studs from the box and closes my shirt. She efficiently folds back my cuffs and has the cuff links in place in a flash. She tucks in my shirt and swiftly ties my black bow tie. "There. Now the jacket."

I'm still holding my pen when she holds the jacket open for me to slide my arms through. While she smooths non-existent creases from the shoulders, I close my eyes and rub my fingers along the length of the pen, its cool length soothing in my hand.

"And the final touch," she says. When I open my eyes, she's holding out a black Venetian mask, which she carefully slips over my face. "There. What do you think?"

We both study my reflection in the Christmas tree mirror, the whiteness of the shirt almost blinding against the black of the tuxedo, the top half of my face hidden behind the mask, my eyes freakishly blue.

"Fucking wow," I finally say.

"You're Death," she whispers. "Beautiful, terrible Death."

"Thank you, Caroline."

"It's nothing," she says, shaking her head.

I flash to her side and take both her hands in mine. I do fucking gratitude about as well as I do apologies. But this...

I love it.

I fucking love it.

"Thank you," I repeat.

She quickly kisses me on the lips, since my cheeks are still hidden behind the mask. "Merry Christmas. Now take it all off so I can get your pants fixed."

I roll my eyes at her and strip right there in the living room because I know it will make her laugh. While I'm pulling back on my jeans and buttoning my shirt, she carefully rehangs everything except the slacks.

"Here, let me," she says, putting my new accessories back into their box.

"Not the pen," I say, holding onto it. "I want the pen." I slip it into the front pocket of my shirt.

She beams. "I'm really glad you like it. I know you already have one..."

"Not like this," I interrupt.

I'd stolen my Montblanc from the first asshole I ate after I flipped my switch in '43. I'd snatched it from his pocket because it'd caught my eye, and after I wrote with it, I kept it. I didn't write any letters for decades, but the souvenir reminded me of the pleasures that were mine for the taking while I waited for Katherine.

This pen is a very different reminder. I pat my pocket, feeling comforted by the weight of it through my shirt. I want to go to the stationary store and buy some new paper. Maybe I'll write to Stefan about the second black truffle I'd found in the market, how I shaved it over homemade pasta, and Caroline and I didn't even bother with plates but ate standing by her tiny stove, elbowing each other as we greedily slurped noodles and butter and garlic and fresh herbs and black truffle straight from the pan.

Caroline's phone chirps and she beams when she sees the screen. She flips through several photos before saying, "They finally let Grayson go home. Want to see an adorable picture?"

"Tell me they didn't go with Grayson Alaric."

She laughs as she hands me the phone. "No. Grayson Matthew. Stefan won that argument."

"Good for him," I say. "The kid will thank his Uncle Stefan one day for that," I say. "And as pleased as Ric would be with a namesake, I know he understands. He thought his name was fucking ridiculous too."

The picture is Stefan, smiling nervously at the camera while awkwardly holding the baby. He looks pleased, but also hilariously uncomfortable, but then again, he's not had a lot of practice holding newborns because most people don't hand over their precious babies to vampires. For being a month early, Grayson looks good, a bit small, maybe, but he doesn't have the tiny, old-man face that so many newborns have. His little cheeks are round, and he's wearing a tiny red hat, swaddled in a red blanket, looking every bit the miraculous Christmas bundle.

"Did you ever think about kids?" Caroline asks.

I shrug. "I didn't think I'd live through the war, to tell you the truth. Although back then, having kids wasn't a choice. If you were fucking, you'd end up with a brood."

She smiles. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"You?"

Caroline shrugs. "In theory, sure. I wanted it all. I still do. But I was too young to have given kids serious thought. I never liked dolls, and I wasn't the person who immediately came to mind when someone needed a babysitter. But maybe..." Her voice trails off. "Once I'd grown up..."

"And conquered the world..." I lightly finish for her.

Without thinking, I flip to the next picture, and have to hold my breath. It's Elena holding Grayson. Unlike Stefan, she's not looking at the camera. She has eyes only for her nephew, and he's staring up at her with those bottomless newborn blue eyes, his little mouth puckered like he's about to ask her a question. She's holding him like a pro. Like a mother would.

"He's beautiful," I say, staring at the photo, memorizing every agonizing detail. "The next generation of Gilberts. We should toast, yes? This is definitely a toast-y moment."

"Damon," Caroline begins as I hand back her phone and head to the kitchen.

I pull a bottle of champagne from Caroline's tiny fridge and pop the cork, filling two glasses.

"Damon," she starts again.

"To Grayson Matthew Gilbert," I interrupt, handing her a glass and clinking it gently with mine. "May his life be long, but not too long, and blissfully unburdened and full of love."

I swallow the contents of my glass in a single gulp and refill.


	10. Ten Lords A-Leaping

Ten Lords a Leaping 

"Am I forgetting anything?" I ask Caroline, looking around the room one last time before I zip up my small bag. Most of my things are already at the hotel or on their way back home. I pat my pocket and feel my new pen, and _Call of the Wild_ is in my jacket. "Please tell me you've finally finished your fucking letter. I need it."

Caroline sighs and reluctantly pulls a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "You can't read it," she says.

"Fine. Whatever." I hold out my hand, but she doesn't give it to me.

"Well," she says, hesitating. "Maybe you should. Look it over, I mean. I didn't know what to say."

Fuck. Like I did any better?

"Dear Mom," she recites in a formal voice. "So sorry you thought I died. I didn't, but you can't tell anyone that. I understand if you want to kill me now. I'll explain when I see you in about a year. Love, Caroline." She rolls her eyes. "What did you say to her in yours?"

"Dear Liz, so sorry you thought Caroline died..." She grabs a nearby shoe and throws it so fast I almost can't catch it.

"Death by stiletto?" I ask with a smile just before it hits me in the face. "It's all fun and games until somebody loses an eye."

"Oh shut up." She huffs and flops dramatically back onto the bed. "You don't have to leave yet. They aren't going to be here for hours."

"Things to do, people to eat," I vaguely reply.

"Lies to tell, family to avoid." She says. "I don't know how to do this without you."

I set my bag on the floor and flop next to her, enjoying her little squeal of surprise as she bounces. She immediately curls into my side, her hair tickling my nose as she nestles in and gets comfortable.

"Yes," I firmly say, smoothing back her hair so it's not in my face. "You do. It's Christmas with people you love, and then hosting a party you've already planned. You're going to be charming and gracious and lovable, which is exactly what you do best."

"Where will you be?" she quietly asks.

"I have plans for Christmas, and then I'll be back here. I'll see you the night of the ball."

"I don't believe you." She shakes her head like a child. "I think you're a big liar because you don't have plans at all. You're going to be alone, sulking in a gloomy hotel room, watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ and getting drunk before eating the maids."

"Hmm" I purr. "Now that _does_ sound like a perfect way to spend Christmas. Well, not the gloomy part. There's nothing gloomy about five stars."

She swats my arm. "You're both a snob and a jerk."

"Oh Caroline," I say with a sigh. "Haven't we established that yes, I am a jerk? A really big one. And I like to think of myself as appreciative of the finer things."

"You're an intolerable, hedonistic, aristocratic snob."

"Well, I can think of worse things," I honestly reply.

"You're not as mean as you want people to think, you know," she whispers. "I'm onto you."

"Well, you're not as shallow," I snap. "So I guess we both defy expectations."

Caroline flinches at the harshness of my words, and I immediately feel like a dick, so I pull her closer and kiss the top of her head. Poor Liz, when she gets the call. With the time difference, it'll be the middle of the night, and some stranger with a French accent will tell her her only daughter is dead, and she'll be alone and not know the truth. I am a dick, no fucking way around it.

"This is my 180th Christmas, Caroline," I finally say. "I can handle it."

"But you don't have to be alone," she says. "You don't. You have me, and Stefan, and..."

"I really do have plans," I interrupt, before she can drop the E-word. I can't afford to be tempted. Not now. Not when so much is on the line and it would be so fucking easy to give in.

"Fine," Caroline sulks. "Be that way."

"I will."

She nods. "What else do I need to do to get ready? Do I pack my things, or..." her voice trails off.

"Nope," I say. "I've already hired a crew who've been compelled to believe they'll die terrible, painful deaths if they steal, break, or in any way damage a single one of your precious belongings."

"That's not funny, Damon," she scolds.

"Good thing," I say. "Because I'm not fucking kidding."

"I can't take you anywhere, can I?" she asks. She tries to sound put out about it, but within seconds, she's giggling. "It's really not funny," she says not very convincingly. "But then I imagine these poor terrified men, jumping around all nervous, looking over their shoulders for the boogie man, and packing up my stuff like it belongs in a museum. I hope you're paying them."

"Handsomely," I reply.

She laughs so hard she shakes the bed, and I can't tell if her tears are actual tears, or tears from laughing, and maybe it doesn't matter because the line between the two is too fucking blurry most of the time anyway.

"Christ," I mutter. "And you can't take _me_ anywhere?"


	11. Eleven Pipers Piping

Eleven Pipers Piping

Christmas Eve, and Rome is bursting at the seams with the faithful and the predators who will always circle a crowd, looking for victims to prey upon. Maybe later I'll have some fun and hunt the hunters, but for now, I forgo the obviousness of St. Peter's and head to my favorite church, the Lateran Basilica, site of the first Church within the Roman city walls. I love its vast opulence, its unapologetic reverence for Catholicism's magpie, pagan roots. It too is packed, the ancient steps, supposedly Pilot's stairs that Jesus walked during the Passion, are lined with people patiently waiting for Midnight Mass.

I'm not here for Mass. I don't need the metaphorical blood of Christ when I drink the real kind everyday, and I don't do confession either, since I'm not sorry for most of the things I've done and will do, and I'm not going to lie and say I am. I am many things, but I like to think I'm not a goddamn liar. Well, mostly not a liar.

But there's something about Rome, the Eternal City, my favorite city in the whole world, and Christmas. Christmas is a time for hope and light and desire, but you can't have the glitter without the darkness, the longing for things you know you can't have and missing the people you love. I have a fondness for melancholy Christmas tunes and I always tear up at the end of _A Christmas Story_, when the kid's dad gives him his fucking BB gun and all his childish dreams come true.

Yeah, I'm a fucking sap.

When it's finally my turn, I pay my money and light my candles. One for my mother, always, because she would want me to. She was a good Catholic and loved Christmas, and I remember her and the taste of spiced wine and gingerbread and how her eyes, the icy blue eyes I inherited from her, always twinkled when she looked at me. Good Christ my mother loved me. My eyes may look like hers, but I'm fairly certain they don't twinkle, but I like to think she still loves me anyway. I light a candle for Ric, who would mock me for doing it, but whatever. Then I raise my flask to him and take a drink, ignoring the scowls and hisses from the people around me because I don't give a shit what they think. It's a gesture he'd actually approve of. Ten years have gone by in a blink and an eternity, and I hope he's not haunting Jeremy and has moved on, wherever it is the dead people go. And I light a final candle for Anna, who's happily enjoy her best Christmas ever and doesn't realize she's about to be dead. Collateral damage. A necessary sacrifice for my greater good. One more body, but certainly not the last, in a long line of people I've killed, some for better reasons than others.

I'm not Stefan, and I'm a fucking miserable excuse for a Catholic, so I don't keep a list, but when I let myself, I feel them with me. All of them.

At exactly 12:01, my phone vibrates with a text from Caroline: _If you're alone and drinking, consider yourself busted. Merry Christmas, Mr. Scrooge._

It would've been so easy to let her convince me to stay. To be sitting in the living room with my book and my drink when Stefan and Elena walked through the door. I know what would've happened: shocked silence for maybe three seconds, and then tears of joy and hugs and my arms around the people I love who actually love me back.

But happy endings don't last, and Caroline still has to die, which means I have to kill Anna so Caroline gets to live her un-life. I can't do what I need to do if Elena's looking at me and knows it's happening. She always wanted me to be the better man, and I try. I fucking try. But I can't. I'm the guy who breaks the fucking eggs, and that means I don't get the girl.

I'll never get the girl, the only girl who will ever matter, and pretending like I can, even for a moment, no matter how good it would feel, would just make it worse.

At least that's what I tell myself. Maybe I am a liar, I don't fucking know. But that's why I flew to another country for less than twenty-four hours. So I can't, in a moment of fucking weakness, knock on Caroline's door and beg to be let in. So I can't watch from the rooftop across the street like a thief stealing glimpses of a life I'm not allowed to have. I'm here, lighting candles and paying the piper for all the things I've done and will continue to do because this is who I am.

I text Caroline back so she doesn't worry, wishing like hell I was drinking and watching movies in a hotel room like she thinks I am:_ And God bless us all, everyone._


	12. Twelve Drummers Drumming

_A/N: Cheers, gentle readers! Thank you so much, everyone, who's been following my vision for these two crazy kids, reading and kindly reviewing, especially all the anonymous Guests I couldn't reply to personally. I have excited kiddos underfoot and "Frosty the Snowman" playing on a loop in my head, so I'm going to take a few days to enjoy my family. I hope everyone has a wonderful week, whichever holiday or season you're celebrating (or choosing not to): Merry Happy Greetings. I'll be back with Bourbon Before Breakfast, my in-canon fic, in the not-too-distant future._

* * *

Twelve Drummers Drumming

"A dance, mademoiselle?" I say.

Caroline takes a deep breath when she sees me, but she grasps my hand in hers and allows me to guide her onto the dance floor.

She's stunning in a midnight blue gown, dripping with sapphires and diamonds, just her eyes hiding behind a delicate silver mask. I can already see next month's _People_ and _Vanity Fair_ with the last photos taken of the late, great Caroline Forbes gracing the covers. There will be a lot of talk about how tragically young she was, her genius yet to be fully realized. An impeccable and gracious hostess, she's kissed cheeks and given everyone their moment to bask in her undivided attention. Her toast, given at just the right time, after the late-comers had arrived but before the early-birds left, was incredibly charming, with just the right amount of self-deprecating humor and an earnest humility that can't be faked.

After her toast, with people still clapping and more than one lady carefully dabbing away tears before eye make-up was ruined, Caroline pulled a laughing and protesting Stefan onto the dance floor. Elena was so busy watching them that I got to spend the entire dance watching her, not worried that she would catch me doing it. I've technically kept my end of the bargain with Stefan, but I have to be careful around her. Without fail, she always knows when I'm watching. But tonight she seems to have other things on her mind, so I got to look at her, drink her in with greedy gulps because it'll be a while before I can see her again.

"The clock is striking midnight, Cinderella," I whisper in Caroline's ear. "This dance. Then have a drink. Then one more dance, and then leave. I've already compelled your driver, and I'll meet you."

She swallows, but her smile never falters because she's a pro. To think I compelled her when she was the resident Mean Girl of Mystic Falls...

"Okay," she agrees with a quiet determination. She twirls effortlessly in my arms, light and graceful as if she doesn't have a care in the world. "Okay," she repeats.

I kiss her forehead as the song comes to an end. "It's going to be alright," I assure her. "Trust me."

* * *

"Hello, brother," I quietly say, coming up behind Stefan as soon as Elena excuses herself to get a fresh drink. She obviously sees the same inevitability I realized a couple years ago, that Stefan and Caroline will one day be lovers. They would both probably laugh at the absurdity of the idea if it were mentioned right now, but the writing's on the wall for those two. They're fucking beautiful together, balancing each other in a way that's right and fitting. It's enough to piss me off, really. But Elena, infuriatingly and confoundingly selfless, didn't seem jealous at all while she watched my brother and her best friend dance with love and affection. She looked relieved.

Stefan turns, the smile already spreading across his face. "Damon!" He throws his arms around me. "I thought that might have been you just now, dancing with Caroline, but I wasn't sure. Masks..."

"I'm about to leave," I say.

His smile fades, and he knowingly nods. "Anything I can do?"

"Yes," I say, pulling him aside so I can see when Elena comes back. "Move the investigation along. It's going to be as non-suspicious as I could think to make it, but still."

He nods. "Do I want to know?"

"Single car accident. The body will be burned, but the dentals are going to match. The tox-screen is going to come back negative. Everything's going to look perfectly, tragically normal."

"You're going to flip the car? Puncture the tank and use gasoline for the accelerant?"

I roll my eyes. "No. I'm an idiot."

"Sorry," he quickly says. "Who are you..." he begins.

"I know it's going to be hard," I interrupt. "But you can't let on that you know anything until after the funeral."

"I know," he says. "For Caroline's sake, it has be convincing."

"Yes," I say. The fact that I'm using a modernized version of Katherine's long-ago escape plan, and I'm the one who blew her cover, is an irony not lost on me. I fucking hope I pull it off better than she did. "People have to believe it, or all this was for nothing."

"I'll see to it," he says.

I hand him two envelopes. "One is for Liz, after the service. She's going to be pissed, and rightfully so, which is why I need you to speed it along. Get the official report, and get the body released and buried. The longer this drags out, the worse it'll be for her." Stefan stashes both envelopes into his jacket.

"What's the other one?"

I can't help but smile. "Caroline wrote her own eulogy when she was thirteen. It's priceless. Make sure Elena reads it at the service."

Stefan chuckles. "I'm surprised she handed it over to you."

"Please. I hacked it off her laptop." When Stefan scowls at me I shrug. "Trust me, you'll thank me when you hear it. Classic Caroline. And that's what she gets for hanging onto it. Fucking hoarders, both of you."

"Look, Damon," he begins.

I see Elena moving towards us in the crowd. "I gotta go."

Stefan nods and hugs me tightly. "Be safe. Call me when you can."

* * *

I'm waiting in the hotel parking garage, already changed into jeans and my leather jacket, when Caroline's driver pulls in. I've taken care of the security cameras, and there will be an unfortunate technical glitch for the next several hours if anyone saw her car pull in, which is unlikely. But still, I planned for every possible contingency I could anticipate, and with Stefan on the ground batting clean-up if needed, this just might fucking work.

"Mademoiselle wanted to take a drive after the ball," I say to her driver, staring deeply into his eyes. "This was not unusual, and she did not appear at all intoxicated. You took a cab home."

He nods and walks away.

"Come on." I steer her quickly up the back stairs, where the security cameras have also been taken out, and we walk briskly to the sixth floor, where my room is right next to the stairwell.

"I need your dress, your shoes, and your jewelry," I say. "And your phone. Make sure I have your phone." To her credit, Caroline doesn't argue with me; she immediately strips and pulls on the clothes I have for her. I take the pins out of her hair and finger comb it enough to pull it back in a simple braid before pulling a newsboy-style cap over her hair.

"Damon?" she says in a very small voice. Standing there, with her cap and her blue jeans, she isn't the sophisticated and talented international star. She looks every bit the seventeen year old girl she was when she turned. "We have to do this?"

"We have to."

She grimly nods.

"Do me a favor and go into the bathroom and..." I sigh. "Just don't listen, okay."

"What am I not listening to?"

The fucking executioner's drums.

"Please, Caroline," I say. "Please. I would compel you if I could, but I can't. So I'm asking. Please don't come out until after you hear me leave. I should be back in about an hour, and we're heading immediately to the airport." I hand her a disposable cell phone. "Just in case," I say.

"Damon," she whispers. "I can't do this. My mom..."

"You can, Caroline. You have to."

She throws her arms around me and hugs me so hard she'd break my ribs if I were human.

"Omelets," she whispers.

"Omelets."

Once Caroline is in the bathroom, and she even turns on the shower and I turn on the tv, I open the closet door. Anna is peacefully sleeping, like I compelled her to do, curled up on a pile of pillows.

"Anna," I quietly say, breaking my compulsion and gently shaking her awake. She opens her eyes and smiles up at me.

"Damon, I was having the best dream. I saw my mother."

Fucking Christ. It's all I'm good for, giving pretty girls nice dreams to die to.

"I need you to put this on," I gently say, my Russian not what it should be but understandable enough. I help her up and get her into Caroline's dress and shoes.

"I look like a princess," she says, staring at herself in the mirror while I help her with the necklace clasp. "I've never had such a pretty dress, or jewels."

"You look beautiful."

I wrap her snugly into a cashmere cloak that will keep her from getting chilled and later soak up plenty of gasoline, and I offer her my arm.

"We're going to take a little drive," I say.


End file.
